


faith is not blind tonight

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF Stiles, Bathing/Washing, Cis Female Stiles Stilinski, Daddy Kink, Double Penetration, Established Relationship, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Multi, Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), POV Stiles Stilinski, Rule 63, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 01:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17819240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: “Events of the day hitting you?”She shrugs one shoulder and takes over drying herself off. “Sort of? Brain’s trying to go scary places.” She squeezes water out of her hair before flipping her head upside down and scrubbing the towel across her scalp. “I’ll be fine if I can stay distracted until I sleep.”“I can help with that, baby,” he purrs in her ear, and oh, there’s a thought. Chris will be on-board for sure.





	faith is not blind tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bunnywest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/gifts).



> So, this fic for the incomparable Bunnywest has been delayed out the YANG, and I'm sorry for that. Especially since it was meant as a gift, and it's now ridiculously late. Big thanks to Green, for cheerleading as I was writing this; to Green and DenaCeleste for help with the title; and to everyone who let me whine about how words were fighting me. 
> 
> Happy belated Valentine's day Bunny, and to you all! Have some dark fluff! *throws heart-shaped chocolates*

 

 

She’s at the drugstore trying to pick out lipstick when it happens. Go figure. She tries to make an effort for one of her boyfriends, and it all goes to shit. Typical Beacon Hills.

Less typical is the way it goes down. Which is quietly. Nondescript dude in jeans, tee shirt, and flannel pulls a gun on her, and leads her outside without a word. If she’s really unlucky, it won’t even have shown up on the security cams, because he’s weirdly subtle about it. She balks when he gestures for her to get in the trunk, but the click of the safety being flicked off convinces her.

The trunk slams closed, and she rifles through her pockets, but apparently she left her phone in the Jeep. Fear crawls up her throat, trying to strangle her, and she closes her eyes and counts her fingers. She doesn’t know what’s going on or why, doesn’t know where she’s being taken or by whom, but does know this:

They’ll find her. She just has to hold on until they do.

 

***

 

When they stop and the trunk opens, they’re in the industrial zone. She tries to figure out where, exactly, as she’s ushered into a warehouse ( _why is it always an abandoned warehouse?_ ), but it all looks more or less the same. And then she’s blinking in the sudden darkness, trying not to trip over her own feet.

“So, why, exactly, have I been kidnapped this time? Because I gotta say, your timing sucks.”

This week’s kidnapper snorts. “Look, it’s—it’s not about you, okay? You’re just the fastest way to get to him.”

She rolls her eyes, because he can’t see it, and also, _goddamnit, Peter_. “Oh my god, I’m gonna slap the shit out of him for this. What the hell did Peter do now?”

Kidnapper stares at her. “Who’s Peter?”

And holy Skippy McShitfuck, for once, something is not Peter’s fault. Maybe. Probably. “Oh my god, I’m never going to let him live this down.” She takes a step towards him, hands out at her sides. “Look, I have no idea what you’ve heard about the Argents, but I’m pretty sure that Chris is gonna go ballistic when he finds out what you’ve done. If you’ve got beef to settle with him, or business in this territory, cool, fine, whatever, but having collateral in the form of his girlfriend is not going to end well for you.”

Kidnapper’s gun jerks up to point directly at her head. “I don’t know who the hell your boyfriend is, and I don’t care, either.”

Right, ‘kay, Stiles is officially getting pissy. “Then whose fucking fault is it that I just got stuffed in the trunk of a car at gunpoint?”

Dude’s face splits into an unsettling grin. “You can thank your father for that, girlie.”

 

***

 

In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to try and punch the asshole pointing a gun at her head. But, then again, she’s had worse ideas, and those generally work out well, and he _is_ just a fellow human and not a demon, werewolf, deranged magic user, or angry bigfoot, so in theory, it was a good plan.

She just didn’t take the whole ex-con part seriously enough. She thought that, since she’s leverage, the gun was for show. Which is a miscalculation, it turns out, since he fires a shot just to her right that doesn’t miss her by anything close to enough.

“The next one will find a home in your pretty skin, sweet pea, so be a good girl and do as I say, hmm?”

She clenches her jaw so what she wants to say won’t spill out. She doesn’t have all the information yet, so she can’t risk winding this guy up. Her guys are already going to lose their shit that she’s been taken—Peter will tear this bastard limb from limb if he finds her seriously injured. She needs to bide her time and figure out what kind of crazy she’s dealing with.

So she simpers, “Sure thing, dude. I’ll get right on that. Just as soon as you actually tell me what it is you want me to do.”

 

***

 

Mostly, this is a waiting game. She knows that. She was supposed to meet Chris in less than an hour for their date, and she wanted to look nice. When she doesn’t show up, he’ll call. When she doesn’t answer her phone, he’ll know something’s happened.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been here, but she’s probably already late. The only problem is, this whole clusterfuck is 100% pure human bullshit, so Chris and Peter will probably lose time looking in the wrong direction, and she needs to last however long it takes until they find her.

And also prevent Kidnapping Nutbag from hurting her dad. Because, whatever this guy might think, she’s not letting that happen.

 

***

 

Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done.

“Call him,” he growls. She doesn’t bother looking at, let alone reaching for, the phone he’s holding out to her.

“I don’t think so.” She could, maybe, try her luck dialling Peter, but there’s no way this guy will leave the call running long enough to establish a trace, and that’s assuming he doesn’t take the phone back right after she dials. There are too many variables, too many ways this can go wrong, for her to risk it.

Denial is easier. If he needs her alive for something, she can use that.

She repeats it to herself when he points the gun at her head again. “Call him or I’ll shoot you!”

“How about you just dial 9-1-1 and tell them you kidnapped the Sheriff’s daughter and are holding her at gunpoint. I’m sure they’d connect you lickety-split.”

“No, no, no, no, no! The call has to come from you!”

“Why?” If this were any other situation, she might actually be having fun, riling this guy up, but she’s walking a delicate line here. He’s already proven that he’s willing to fire to scare her, so she wouldn’t put it past him to shoot her somewhere (supposedly) non-fatal to make a point.

“Because it has to! He had my girlfriend call me, get me to come to the diner, and then he arrested me. I want him to know how it feels.”

“Uh huh,” she says flatly, because Jesus, Peter’s raised the bar for unhinged lunatics seeking revenge. “Look, Jimmy—or whatever the fuck your name is—”

“Why the hell you wanna know what my name is?”

She glares and keeps going like he didn’t interrupt. “This plan was not well-thought out on your part, which, hey, we can’t all be valedictorian, and, to be fair, there are some variables here that you’re not aware of. Mostly the boyfriends I mentioned earlier.”

“And I told you, I don’t know or care who the hell you’re screwing, I got a bone to pick with that pig father of yours.”

She lets her eyes go hard, lets a little of the girl who runs with wolves and takes out threats with a baseball bat bleed through. “Yeah, but you really should. Because when they get here, it’s over for you, pal.”

She sees fear glint in his eyes before she feels the blow that snaps her head to the side. She tastes blood, and smiles. Turns back to Jimmy Shitface and spits it out. “I hope that was worth it,” she tells him sweetly.

His jaw clenches, and she doesn’t need to be a wolf to know he’s saturated in fear-sweat right now. Of all the things she could’ve done, _this_ is what’s unnerved him most. She’ll keep that in mind for future use. “Worth what?”

She giggles a little, just to watch him squirm. “What Peter’ll do to you for making me bleed.”

 

***

 

She’s tired, she’s hungry, and she’s bored.

It’s not going well for Jimmy Shitface. “I should shoot you just to shut you up,” he spits.

The threat isn’t nearly as scary as it was the first twelve times he made it. She grins up at him from where she’s sitting on the concrete, and it makes him take a step back. “Why don’t you put the gun down, you little chickenshit, and come _make me_?”

His face turns red, and then she hears what she’s been waiting for—the clang of the warehouse door being raised. His head snaps around at the sound. “What the fuck was that?”

Relief floods through her, and she breaks out in nervous giggling. “Time’s up, Jimmy.”

Soft footsteps echo down the hall, and he can’t seem to decide where to focus his attention. In the end, he turns and points the gun towards where Chris is approaching. “Whoever you are, don’t come any closer!”

The footsteps don’t stop, don’t even slow down, because Chris faces scarier than Jimmy Shitface at least twice a week before coffee, and she looks around carefully, wondering where Peter is. She catches the flash of his wolf-eyes nearby, between abandoned equipment and crates, and nods at him. He slinks closer, and Chris calls out, “Put the gun down, and this doesn’t have to get messy.”

Peter’s teeth flash, and Stiles has to stifle a giggle. Peter wants it to get messy so, _so_ bad. He wants to make the mess, even if he’ll bitch about the bloodstains later.

“ _You_ put the gun down!” Jimmy yells, shuffling back, trying to maintain distance between him and Chris.

It doesn’t work, because Chris moves forward steadily, his gun never wavering from where it’s trained on Jimmy’s heart. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way, man, your choice. You just have to put the gun down.”

Jimmy demonstrates the same level of intelligence he has so far, and says, “Put the gun down, or I shoot the girl!”

He swings his gun towards her, but the problem is, he wouldn’t hit her. Not now. Not with Peter standing in front of her, fingers curling rhythmically as he tries to keep the claws sheathed. She doesn’t try to step out in front of him—after the way today has gone, her boyfriends can play hero to her damsel-in-distress.

Antihero? Whatever.

Jimmy turns to look at her, and startles so bad he fumbles and nearly drops his gun. “Holy shit! Where the hell did you come from?”

Peter, of course, gives in to his ever-present urge to be a drama queen, and says, “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” with an eye-flash to be extra.

(She can’t technically see it, from behind him, but she knows him well enough to know with absolute certainty that he did it. Plus, Chris is smooshing his lips together the way he always does when he’s not sure whether to laugh or disapprove of Peter’s antics, which is all the confirmation she never needed.)

Jimmy grunts like he’s shitting his pants—which, a smart man would be. “You, move so I don’t have to shoot you. You, put down the gun and walk out of here while I still let you. You boys don’t have to be involved in this, I got business with the little lady’s old man. She plays along, everything’ll be fine.”

A shit-scared teenage civilian would probably buy that, but she knows Peter and Chris never would. Not even when they were teenagers, because they’ve never really been dumb, and only Chris was ever a civilian, not that it lasted long.

Peter tuts. “Christopher, do stop playing with your food, will you?”

Chris sighs, and promptly shoots Jimmy in the kneecap. “You always ruin my fun.” Jimmy screams from the floor, and Chris kicks the dropped gun away as he pulls out the zip ties from one of the many, many pockets of his tac-suit.

Peter snorts. “Shooting him wasn’t fun?”

Chris hauls Jimmy up off the floor, and tilts his head. “Not as much fun as you’ll have with him once we get to the preserve.”

A growl, ravenous and predatory, rolls up from Peter’s chest. “True enough. After all, he did make our girl bleed.”

 

***

 

Stiles smiles at Chris and reaches out to smooth the crinkle between his eyebrows with her thumb. “I’m fine.”

His fingers ghost over her cheek and trace under her split lip. He hums, sounding unconvinced.

She sighs. “Okay, I’ve been way, way worse than this, the shittiest part of it is that it’s my face, and I’m probably gonna have to stay with you and Peter for a couple days so my dad doesn’t see it and flip his shit. But, really, a couple days with you two is definitely something to look forward to, so,” she shrugs.

Ice blue eyes narrow, but he drops the glare to sit next to her on the hood of the Jeep as they wait for Peter. Every now and then they hear a snarl or terrified shriek echo through the preserve, and satisfaction slides down her throat like hot syrup at each one.

Besides, her boyfriends thoughtfully brought along a thermos of tea and some pastries, in addition to the blankets, _and_ she has one of said boyfriends to cuddle with as they wait for their other boyfriend to finish murdering the asshole who kidnapped her, so she really _doesn’t_ mind waiting.

 

***

 

She doesn't argue when Peter herds her into the shower. It's a thing he does, after situations like this—it's just as much about being able to see and touch every bare inch of her as it is washing off the scent of whatever (or whoever) happened. If she also knows he needs it, to reassure himself that she's here and alive with no hidden injuries, she won't tell anyone. Nobody but Chris would believe her anyway.

(Peter would argue that it's just practical, that he needs to wash away any residual evidence, and that the hot water will help her feel better after her ordeal, and he's right, but practicalities aren't really what the shared showers are about.)

His hands are gentle as he guides her into and out of the spray, as he rubs soap over her in big, gentle circles and smooth strokes. He massages her scalp as he works the shampoo through it and she can't help but moan.

He chuckles. “Now, you know I'm not opposed to a round of shower sex—”

“Dick,” she mutters, because he is.

“—but it seems rather cruel to exclude Christopher when he handled all the tedious details of your rescue.”

The only reason she doesn't full-on laugh in his face is because he tips her head back into the spray by tugging on her hair. “The non-murder bits, you mean.”

“Is that not what I said?”

She snorts, because as much as Chris calls them immature children who need to learn how to take things seriously, the inappropriate humour they share is its own medicine. She's pretty sure that the day she and Peter stop being irreverent smartasses is the day he hauls them off to have them checked for possession.

(She knows her world will spin on as long as Peter is a smartass. She doesn’t have to worry as long as he’s snarking, doesn’t have anything to fear unless he looks at her with that terrible gentleness she’s only seen once, when his hands held her like she was fragile and he looked at her with eyes that were flat and dark, like he was already laying her in the ground with nearly everyone else he’d ever loved, and it scared her, even more than the time—)

“Hey, now, none of that,” he murmurs, turning the water off and wrapping her in a ridiculously fluffy towel. “Stay with me, sweetheart.”

She smiles at him. “I’m here, it’s just—”

“Events of the day hitting you?”

She shrugs one shoulder and takes over drying herself off. “Sort of? Brain’s trying to go scary places.” She squeezes water out of her hair before flipping her head upside down and scrubbing the towel across her scalp. “I’ll be fine if I can stay distracted until I sleep.”

“I can help with that, baby,” he purrs in her ear, and oh, _there’s_ a thought. Chris will be on-board for sure.

She bites her bottom lip and clutches the towel in front of her, because she knows the way it’ll make Peter’s predatory instincts sit up and take notice. “Are you sure, Daddy?”

The smirk that unfurls in response sparks heat in her bones. “Very sure, baby,” he murmurs, tugging her towel away before he reaches down, cups the backs of her thighs, and hauls her up. Her legs wrap around his waist reflexively. “But I think we should move this to the bedroom, don’t you? After all, there’s a very nice man we need to reward for all his hard work.”

A little quake goes down her spine, and she presses close, plays it off as nerves. Peter will know it’s the opposite, but he won’t ruin the game. “Reward?”

“Oh, yes, baby. He was exceedingly good today, helping me find you, even made your favourite tea for when we came to get you. Don’t you think that deserves a reward?”

“Yes, Daddy.” She doesn’t say it purely for the sake of the game, either—Chris does deserve to be rewarded, and she knows him, knows that his iron-clad control during the crisis always unravels into mindless desperation once they’re all home safe.

She also knows he tends to fight it, ashamed of his reaction. Peter does, too, which is why he lays her out on their bed, kissing her softly before slithering down her body. “Well, then. Make some noise, sweetheart, let him know you want something.”

She nods, and Peter starts licking her slowly. It’s mostly a tease, but the hot slide of his tongue over her folds feels good, and she rolls her hips against his face, whining. He pins her down, and smirks. “Come now. You can be louder than that.”

She gives an honest-to-fuck shriek when he seals his lips around her clit and sucks _hard_. It’s too much too soon, but so good at the same time. There are tears in her eyes when he pulls away. “I’m sure that got his attention.”

She gives a broken laugh. “I fucking hope s—AH!” Her smartassery is cut-off mid-sentence as Peter suddenly sinks his teeth into her thigh.

She whines, pushing at his head, because it’s good but it _hurts_ , and she’s not interested in that tonight. He takes his sweet time pulling away, sucking up a bruise and licking over it. “That ought to do it,” he murmurs.

Before Stiles can ask him if that means what she thinks it does, Chris appears in the doorway, a little out of breath from running up the stairs, if she had to guess. “What happened, is St—” his words die and his mouth drops open when he sees them sprawled naked on the bed, Stiles’s thighs hooked over Peter’s broad shoulders. He swallows loudly. “Oh. I see.”

Peter turns, and pretends to notice Chris. As if the bitey bastard couldn’t hear his boyfriend’s heartbeat rushing up the stairs. “Ah, there you are. I need your help.”

“Oh?” Chris takes a step forward, eyes darting to her, even as he tries to focus on Peter.

“Mm.” Peter leans in and drags his tongue across her clit again, and her moan is completely genuine. “Our girl’s feeling greedy, needs the both of us in her. Do me a favour and keep her distracted while I work her open?”

Chris nods, licking his lips. “I can do that.” He strips out of his shirt and starts unbuckling his jeans. “Anything you want in particular, baby?”

She hadn’t, but now? “Want your tongue,” she whines, because Peter’s an asshole who started something and didn’t bother to finish.

He fumbles shucking his jeans, and leaves his briefs on even though they’re already tented. “Yeah, baby,” he rumbles, and the bedroom-gravelly tone makes her wetter. “You wanna come on my face?”

She whines as Peter gets up and gets the lube, leaving her unanchored and needy for skin on skin. And to come. She really, _really_ wants to come now—she’s had a very hard day, and she’s got her boyfriends in bed and everyone’s naked (or nearly), and she’s been very unfairly teased with tongue and the promise of a double dicking. She deserves an orgasm.

Chris, as needy as she is, doesn’t make her wait, just manhandles her until they’re both on their sides, his cheek pillowed on her thigh and her other leg draped over his ribs. He starts lapping at her greedily, and she presses closer—his lack of inhibition is contagious, not that she had much restraint to start with. He groans and suckles at her clit, making her squirm, but between his hand on her hip and Peter against her back, she can’t go anywhere. It’s hotter than it has any right to be.

And then Peter’s fingers are gliding across her rim, lube-slick and insistent. He doesn’t waste any more time teasing, but he _is_ gentle—it’s been a while, since she’s had one of them in her ass, and she knows Peter won’t hurt her with this, not unless she explicitly asks him to. The rhythmic push-pull as he works his finger in and out has her jerking and rutting against Chris’s face, close.

“Please,” she gasps, fingers tangling in his salt-and-pepper hair.

He hums against her, and then sucks while flicking his tongue over her clit. She chokes on his name as her legs start to tense, and Peter doesn’t stop, push-pulling with the same rhythm but a little more force. Chris doesn’t let up either, and between the two of them, she shakes out a breath-stealing, toe-curling orgasm in short order.

“You alright, baby?” Peter murmurs. Chris’s face is still pressed to her stomach and he’s panting wetly against her cunt. It’s making her feel unsettled. Greedy. Not-done-yet.

“Mhm,” she hums, still trying to catch her breath. She thinks she’s trembling a little, and is more than content to lie sprawled out until her legs stop feeling like Jell-O, but that’s when Peter decides to screw a second finger in to join the first, so she nearly bucks poor Chris off the bed. “ _Peter_!”

He tugs at her rim sharply—enough to sting a little, but not hurt. “What was that?”

“Daddy,” she whines, softer, more plaintive.

“Better,” he murmurs. “Now, did you need something?”

She mewls and tries to remember. She’s still come-drunk. “Was try’na recover,” she grumbles.

Peter chuckles a little, and she feels Chris shift away from her. “We both know you’re not done, sweetheart. Or was I imagining you frantically humping Christopher’s face when I started to finger you?”

She blushes, and turns to bury her face into the pillow. “Stoooop it.” But she doesn’t stop rocking subtly back against his hand.

“Chris, put something in her mouth, will you?”

It sends a jolt of arousal through her, and she hates him, a little, for knowing how to play her so well. But then Chris is ditching his underwear before crawling up the bed and turning her to face him. As soon as she nods, he feeds her his cock. She doesn’t get much more than the tip in her mouth, since she can’t really bob, but he doesn’t seem to mind, petting her hair and cooing praise as she works her tongue and swallows the pre-come he’s leaking like a cracked pipe. 

It also makes her hyper-aware of how wet she is, how much she wants to be filled with a lot more than a couple of Peter’s fingers. She gives a strong suck and feels smug when Chris’s breath hitches and his hips stutter forward. She’s about to do it again, but Peter spreads his fingers before squeezing a third one in, and her eyes scrunch shut as she suddenly has to concentrate on breathing. Breathing and relaxing.

For a moment, neither of them move beyond the hand Chris cards through her hair. Then Peter eases his fingers out, and she hears the click of the lube bottle before they’re back, coated in more slick. The push back in is easier, but they still wait until she hums and melts into the bed before they move—and she’d be a dirty rotten liar if she tried to say it doesn’t make her feel loved.

Time gets hazy, with Chris’s grunts in her ears and cock in her mouth, Peter’s hand on her waist and fingers methodically working her open, both of them ignoring her cunt for now. She could touch herself—or try, given that Daddy seems to have some strong opinions about what she gets in which of her holes—but she doesn’t want to, knows she won’t be satisfied with what she can give herself.

Finally, Peter slides his fingers out of her ass, and gets off the bed. “I’m going to wash my hands. Christopher? Roll on a condom and fill her back up for me?”

“Yeah,” Chris husks, so deep in his own need that he doesn’t even put up a token protest. He just pulls his cock out of her mouth and fishes around the bedside table for a condom, and then settles in behind her on the bed.

She’s not sure how they want to do this, but she figures if they need her to move, they’ll move her themselves. It seems like a safe assumption, given how tonight’s going.

Chris doesn’t waste any time, just gets the condom on and coats himself with lube before guiding the head of his cock to her softened rim. She breathes slowly as he nudges in, and she’s grateful that he’s the one taking her from behind tonight, because while he and Peter are about the same length, Peter’s thicker. And if she’s taking them both at once, it’s easier to have Peter in the front, and Chris at the back.

By the time Peter comes back, Chris’s hips are twitching in aborted little thrusts. “Ready, baby?”

That’s a stupid question, but she doesn’t have the brainpower to shoot it down with the sarcasm it deserves. So she settles for, “Please, Daddy?” knowing he can’t resist when she begs.

The look he gives her says he knows he’s being played, but he still lies face-to-face with her on the bed, pulling her top leg up and hitching it over his hip. His fingers trace over her swollen clit and then down, sinking inside like a hot knife through butter. She groans and tries to push into it, but Chris doesn’t let her go far.

She grunts and nearly swears at them as they hold her still, on the edge of what she wants but without letting her actually have it—until Peter pulls his fingers free with a dirty noise before sucking them clean. She groans at that, and he smirks, because he’s a bastard and likes teasing her, but he’s slipping on a condom and lining up, and oh-oh- _oh_ —

She garbles out something half gibberish, half-moan, because she finally has them both, is finally full and held and warm and _safe_. She starts to shake, and Chris asks something, but Peter’s the one to reassure him because she’s too busy drowning in rapture to process his question, let alone give a coherent answer.

They start to move, then, Peter in minute grinds, barely anything at all, but it’s the perfect counterpoint to Chris’s deep thrusts, and the way they move her over Peter’s cock. She lets them direct her, lets the drag and snap of Chris’s hips rock her like the tide, knowing Peter will catch her before she crashes. Pleasure sparks and builds in her pelvis as her nerve endings throb in time with her heartbeat, and she wants to come as much as she doesn’t, because she doesn’t want this to end.

But it will, because Chris is grunting against her neck as he pushes as deep as he can and jerks, cock flexing as he comes, and it breaks her patience. Chris wraps his arms around her and rolls them so that she’s sprawled across his chest, his still-hard cock inside her. Peter follows, bracing on his knees to drive in hard, and she cries out, a little, clutching at his shoulders and whining as the beginnings of another orgasm start to burn under her skin.

Stiles loses her breath, tensing as Chris’s hand slides down her belly until one gun-callused finger finds her clit. Between him and Peter and the way she’s riding the edge between delirious pleasure and pain, she writhes, tensing and mouth falling open as she comes so hard her whole body goes warm and starts tingling. She’s riding out the last of it when Peter’s rhythm falters, stutterfucking as he comes, too, panting against her collarbone and shaking as he holds himself up so their combined weight doesn’t crush Chris.

They manoeuvre her back onto her side as they pull out, and her breath catches at the empty feeling as well-used flesh struggles to close. Her guys ditch the condoms, and pull her under the covers with them, tucking her in between them even though the middle is Peter’s usual spot.

She falls asleep with Peter’s heartbeat under her ear and Chris’s hand stroking down her spine.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [Tumblr](https://queerfictionwriter.tumblr.com/)


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